


The colour of our planet from far far away

by reckonedrightly



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ficlet, Gen, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-11
Updated: 2013-06-11
Packaged: 2017-12-14 16:41:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/839070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reckonedrightly/pseuds/reckonedrightly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After ten hours, he rises again, considerably one-upping Christ.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The colour of our planet from far far away

He opens his eyes to sunlight streaming in through the windows with all its usual indecency, making the world look feverishly real. For a moment, Sherlock stares at the wide, pale slats of light on the ceiling, lying there as if they’ve got some kind of right, and thinks with mute, miserable anger that he wasn’t expecting this.

There’s a weight on his chest. It could be metaphorical. It’s not. It’s a cat. He sits up, and Toby gives a disgruntled noise as he slinks off, leaving Sherlock alone on Molly’s sofa. His head’s pounding. He feels, not inappropriately, like he’s just jumped off a building. He feels, also understandably, like he hasn't hit the ground yet.

He gets up, dusts himself off. From the kitchen, there is the domestic clatter of a boiling kettle and the crash and bustle of Molly urgently putting dishes away, trying to drown out the sound of Sherlock getting up. This lets her pretend she hasn’t noticed, so that he doesn't have to do anything so humiliating as ask for a moment to compose himself. By the sunlight, by the graze of stubble on his cheeks, the way his shirt is sticking to him, he’d judge he’s been out for about ten hours. He reaches for his phone to check.

But his phone is on the rooftop of Bart’s, and for a moment the chasm between what he expected and what the facts are gapes inside him and under his feet all at once.

No. No no no no no, that’s not what he did this for. He wasn’t buying himself time to fall to pieces.

He straightens up, feeling like he’s puppeteering his own body, and decides to get out, onto the street, where he can walk and think and remind himself that he knows exactly where he is, down to the colour of the dust and the reek of the air. He just needs to get everything out of his system, get everything straight, find the problem and solve it.

But Molly has decided that he should have composed himself by now. She pokes her head into the living room. It’s a vote of confidence, and it’s completely misplaced. He doesn’t turn to face her. 

“I thought—coffee,” Molly says, but he’s already talking over her and the rest of the universe, announcing, “I’ve got things to do,” hearing himself say it rather than feeling it come out of his mouth.

“Just coffee. You’ve got time for coffee. Sherlock.”

He pauses, his hands on the lapels of his jacket, realising that he can’t go out looking like this anyway. Not when he’s so recently dead, anyway. Until he’s firmly past-tense, he’s going to have to avoid recognition.

And that’s why he says, “Yes. Alright.”

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from Regina Spektor's 'Blue Lips'. Thank you for reading!


End file.
